


Sine Effusione Sanguinis

by lonelywalker



Series: A Particularly Bad Period in History [7]
Category: Miracle Workers (TV)
Genre: Chris and Ethan plan their kid's wedding, Established Relationship, M/M, it would be utter domestic fluff except for the war and murder aspects, takes place during 2x09, wildly anachronistic fantasy history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: “Princess Vicki seems to think it’s inevitable that I’m going to kill you.”Cragnoor smiled. “Sometimes when we’re in bed I think the same thing.”
Relationships: King Cragnoor/Lord Chris Vexler
Series: A Particularly Bad Period in History [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698502
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Sine Effusione Sanguinis

Lower Murkford, like any other society, was built on a system of clear divisions and rules that everyone acknowledged and followed, often without truly recognizing their existence. Royalty were akin to gods. Peasants were akin to shit. And Valdrogians, druids, and all other outsiders, from the slightly unfamiliar to downright alien, were something worse than shit. _Foreign_ shit. The kind that reflected strange dietary preferences and possibly a liking for speaking in made-up languages and wearing antlers during pub quizzes.

These divisions and rules were something beyond right and wrong, beyond fair and unfair. They were something intrinsic to the very soil and air, and to the fabric of Lower Murkford’s entire existence. Arguing with the rules or trying to bridge those divisions would’ve been just as profitable as herding cats, or trying to spark a theological debate with a pine cone. Princes and peasants were just as much different species as bees and badgers, and could never truly exist on the same level, much less speak the same language.

These were the ineffable truths on which Chris Vexler liked to dwell during lazy mornings while the sun streaked gentle warmth across his naked skin and the king’s tongue was in his ass. For one thing, they kept him from coming hot and wet across the bedsheets. For another, irony was one hell of a turn-on.

“Ethan…” He reached back, his fingertips brushing through the king’s wild hair, torn between pulling him away and begging him to never, ever stop.

 _The king_. He was always Ethan now, in bed, in their chambers, in Vexler’s mind. But he had to admit that the thrill was just a little bit more intense, knowing it was King Cragnoor he was fucking, who was fucking him, never mind that they didn’t have a scrap of clothing between them, let alone crowns. It was some bizarre circumstance (although probably better for his overall hygiene) that a cabbage seller accustomed to sleeping in alleys had had to start bedding the king to learn all about the dirtier side of sex.

In his moments of fantasy, he’d wondered just how far they might have to travel before no one recognized Cragnoor as anything more than a big, solid lad who might well have done some soldiering in his life, but then again could be a farmer or wainwright or blacksmith or any one of two dozen other unwaveringly average occupations. Possibly not much further than the first house in Lower Murkford, if Cragnoor exchanged his leather and armor for something slightly less foreboding. Chauncley had blundered his way through an entire shitshoveling internship with nothing more than an apron as a disguise.

“Am I boring you?” 

Vexler could swear that Cragnoor’s whole long ancestry of psychotic bloodthirsty tyrants had risen to power purely thanks to their vocal ability to scare the living daylights out of people. Although being giants with broad shoulders, large swords, and absurdly good hand-eye coordination had probably helped.

“Not asleep,” he managed, hugging the pillow tighter to his chest and lifting his ass, craving that wet warmth and deliciously tender sensation. “Don’t stop.”

Cragnoor still resisted taking orders from him, but now it was out of some long-dormant sense of boyish mischief rather than rigid class distinctions. So his response was a long swipe of his tongue over Vexler’s hole and then a not-entirely-gentle nip at his asscheek. Vexler hated the way both actions sent an equally intense pulse straight to his cock. His body had no sense of decorum.

“If you’re going to stop, you better start fucking me or I’ll start fucking your goddamn mattress.”

He could feel the heat of Cragnoor’s laughter against his skin. “You young people, so impetuous, so impatient.”

Vexler hadn’t felt like a young person in years. Maybe carrying the weight of a kingdom would do that to you, although Cragnoor had the strength and stamina of a man some twenty years younger. Maybe royals aged slower. It would certainly explain a lot about Chauncley.

He raised his hips again, pushing back into the big, strong hands that suddenly gripped him, steadying him, holding him in place. There were few things more erotic than the way Cragnoor could so utterly dominate and control him, if he wanted… and perhaps it was only erotic because of that _if_ , the possibility of being crushed and broken that never edged anywhere close to reality.

Well, the broken part, anyway. He did truly enjoy Cragnoor’s strength and weight, pinning him so all he could do was take that thick, solid cock and lose himself in sensation as pain reliably blended into the greatest pleasure he’d ever known.

This time, though, Cragnoor tugged on his hip, flipping him over to his back, and moved in to kiss him, their bodies pressed together. Probably no one across ten kingdoms would believe how much Cragnoor liked kissing, or at least liked kissing _him_ , almost as though it was some new game he’d just discovered, better even than archery and swordplay.

Vexler slid his fingers through Cragnoor’s hair, desperate for his lips and tongue, for the taste of himself deep in his lover’s mouth. His other hand ran down the length of Cragnoor’s back, feeling the muscles flex, grabbing a handful of his tight ass. 

“Want you,” Cragnoor murmured in the hollow of his throat, just as Vexler curled a leg over his hip. “Want all of you, forever.”

“Then take me.” He was hungry to be filled, to feel that aching pressure inside him that was always just almost too much to bear.

“Shh. I’ll take care of you.”

Those words spoke of something too sweet and gentle, such that Vexler was opening his mouth to beg for what he really needed when his breath was cut off by Cragnoor sliding inside him, hot and hard. He tipped his head back against the pillow, breath turning into a long moan of satisfaction. “Fuck that’s good.”

“You’re so easily pleased.” In the war room it would be a curt dismissal. Here, the words were tempered just a little by the kisses at his neck, the scrape of teeth through his beard, where no one would see the marks.

Vexler lifted his legs higher, interlocking his ankles in the small of Cragnoor’s back, seeking closer, deeper contact.

“And you’re so beautiful…” Cragnoor’s mouth caught his again and Vexler almost, almost groaned with the sheer frustration of it all, that he could take an infamously insensitive tyrant as a lover and still not reliably get the come fucked out of him so hard he would walk around with the feel of the king's cock seared inside him for days.

“Now who’s easily pleased?” Vexler shifted again, digging his heels into Cragnoor’s ass to give him a hint. That sort of thing might work on horses, but very few horses were as stubborn as Cragnoor could be when he had his mind set on something, which was infuriating even when Vexler was the object of his desire rather than, say, laying waste to a village.

Cragnoor nipped at his bottom lip and drew back a little. “You might want to reflect, Chris, on whether you really want this to be over so quickly.”

Speaking of infuriating, that could be the fucking definition of it, making Vexler’s mind skate haphazardly into the territory of worrying that this was the last time, because Cragnoor was bored of him, or because certain doom was marching toward them in the form of an invading army, while simultaneously brushing his thumbs over Vexler’s nipples. Vexler let out a strangled cry and contemplated whether he was limber enough to kick Cragnoor in the head. 

“You might want to reflect on whether this is going to be over way quicker if you don’t get moving.” Why not? He’d done it before, spurting out hot white streaks over his belly without either of them even having a hand on him, his body suddenly feeling like it was ripping itself apart with sensation. 

Cragnoor put a hand on him now, sitting up and wrapping his long fingers around Vexler’s cock, lazily stroking, sliding the pad of his thumb over the slick pre-come at its head, making Vexler flinch and then immediately push closer, his whole shaft throbbing in a way Cragnoor just had to sense.

“Ethan, God, please, I need…” Begging was an underappreciated tactic, he felt. 

“I know.”

Vexler didn’t believe in magic and was generally agnostic about gods, demons, and all other supernatural beings that certainly might exist _somewhere_ but had little bearing on life in Lower Murkford. He believed fervently in the roll of Cragnoor’s hips, though, in that divine rhythm that took his breath away and seemed to hold them both in some uncanny grasp. Even if Cragnoor took it slowly, leaning back in so they could kiss while they fucked, the thrusts were wonderfully relentless and deep. 

He was beautiful too, although Vexler would never dare to tell him and only dared to think it in moments like this, when Cragnoor’s big, honed body was between his thighs, sheathed inside him so perfectly, when the sweat was pricking up all over Cragnoor’s pale skin, darkening his hair.

Vexler cupped his face, looking at him, really looking, with what must have been such a wide-eyed, searching expression that Cragnoor might have actually flushed in shyness for a moment. “What?” he said. For all that his thrusts knocked the air out of Vexler every single time, Cragnoor still sounded as steady as when they were playing chess.

“I love you,” Vexler said, his voice seeming strange and distant to his own ears. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

For a moment, Cragnoor did nothing but stare, his whole body tense and frozen in place, some indefinable look passing over his amber eyes. And then he let out a breath and a shudder seemed to go through him, and then he was pressing his face into Vexler’s shoulder and fucking him _hard_ in a way that shut down any possible attempt at further conversation. Vexler wrapped his arms around Cragnoor’s body and held on.

The warmth was incredible. Not the heat from the fire or from Cragnoor’s body, but the warmth that shot right from Cragnoor’s thrusts through the root of his cock, flowing up through his belly, his nipples tingling with it. Cragnoor was so fucking heavy and powerful that it was hard to even move enough to breathe, his head swimming, but his hips had their own ideas, rocking with every movement, rubbing his cock along Cragnoor’s sweat-slicked belly. 

They seemed caught in an eternity like that, an eternity of slowly building pleasure, of the world narrowing to nothing more than skin and sweat and air burning through their lungs. But eventually, eventually, Cragnoor said, “Chris?” with a note of urgency by his ear, and Vexler, having forgotten language itself, punctuated a nod with a whimper of absolute need, thinking only of Cragnoor coming inside him. Then his vision whited out around the edges and every sensation blended into one intense pleasure.

Cragnoor was still moving when he came back to himself, but moving languidly, having pushed himself up again. Dazed, Vexler looked down at his own body, at the sweat and semen and his softening, sensitive cock. 

“I love you too,” Cragnoor said, for once sounding a little out of breath. “Always.”

They were still kissing, halfheartedly disentangling themselves from sheets, when the door opened and some butler who had drawn the shortest of all straws stepped in. “Your grace. My lord.” 

Vexler playfully nudged Cragnoor off him, wondering what would make the butler tear away his gaze, which for now was fixed resolutely on the ceiling. 

“Yes? What? Speak.” Even naked - maybe especially naked - Cragnoor remained the most intimidating man in several dozen kingdoms. 

“The, um, the Valdrogian envoys are here.”

Cragnoor ran a hand back through his sweat-soaked hair and turned to Vexler. “Tell me, Lord Vexler, what do Valdrogians like for breakfast?”

***

“Tact really isn’t one of your strong points, is it?”

Wiser men would probably refrain from needling someone whose epithet was “the Heartless,” especially when he was at that moment wielding a sword that, while blunt, could still inflict substantial damage. Vexler tightened his grip around the hilt of his own sword and prepared to feel every bone in his body shatter.

Cragnoor raised his eyebrows and swung in an almost graceful arc toward Vexler’s hip, which he blocked awkwardly and skipped away from in a way that was certainly less than balletic. “You object to the way I told Chauncley.”

“He’s had a rough couple of weeks,” Vexler said. “And no one likes to think of themselves as a pawn. You could’ve at least painted him as the hero, saving the whole kingdom from death and desolation.”

“A rough couple of weeks.” Cragnoor’s disdain was evident. “Some peasant girl rejected him. Meanwhile the knights and soldiers he should be fighting alongside have been shedding their blood to let him hole up in the castle, mired in his own self-pity. He’s a prince, Chris. This is his duty. This has _always_ been his duty. Raise your sword higher. Protect yourself.”

Vexler sighed, at least half because his shoulders were killing him. “It does suck, though, having to marry some girl you’ve never met, all because your parents arranged it.”

“Does it?” Their blades clashed. Vexler knew Cragnoor was taking it easy on him, but it sure didn’t feel like it. “I’m so glad you explained that to me. I was completely unaware.”

“Would you mind blunting the sarcasm as well?” 

“This is the responsibility we live with in exchange for soft beds and fine wines and not living a life caked in shit. And he’s been luckier than most. By the time I was his age, I’d fought in wars, married a girl I met at the altar, had a son who would prove to be a consistent disappointment… What hardships has he had to bear?”

Vexler coughed and tried to find a way to hold his sword that wouldn’t make his muscles scream. There were many times Cragnoor was insufferable, but when he was right most of all. Vexler wasn’t about to start arguing that he should’ve been rougher on Chauncley and sent him to almost certain death on the front lines as a scrawny teen. “All I’m saying is… Sometimes you have to see these things from the other person’s point of view. We need this wedding to go off without a hitch.”

“Which is exactly why I need to remind him of his duty. He’s had years to play with ducks and fuck around with peasant girls if he wanted. But he’s a man now. He’ll be a king, commanding armies, with children of his own. He needs to grow up. What exactly is that stance you’re trying?”

Vexler shrugged. “I’m being unconventional, to keep my opponent off guard.”

“Trying to live life without your liver is certainly an unconventional choice.” Cragnoor gave him what was almost a friendly whack in the stomach with the flat of his blade. “Besides, the Valdrogian girl seems like a perfectly good match. Similar age. Healthy, educated, with her wits about her. She’ll be the kind of queen he’ll need. And it’s not as though I wasn’t scared to death on my wedding day. He’ll get through it.”

“Have you considered actually telling him that?” These fighting lessons were supposed to prepare him in case everything went horribly wrong, or the Valdrogians just had a bit too much to drink, but at this rate he was going to be too bruised and sore to even stand.

“The last time I tried some father-son bonding he wound up trying to dismantle the entire justice system. I’m asking him to say two damn words and avert a war. It’s not like he has to offer himself up as a human sacrifice like my uncle did with the Visigoths. Two words, Chris. Even Chauncley can manage that.”

Vexler leaned back against the castle wall to catch his breath. “And you really want me to officiate this thing? Not a priest or a druid or…”

“The Valdrogians don’t share any of our gods, so it’s a civil marriage, and you’re my minister of the realm. Also, you’re the only person I trust not to fuck it up. Even if you’ve apparently given up on defending yourself.”

Vexler lifted a placatory hand, gulping down air. “Look, I’m not going to become a master swordsman in a week, okay? If some bad shit happens, I’ll do my best.”

Cragnoor studied him for a moment, and lowered his sword. “Chris,” he said, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “if some bad shit happens, I want you to remember… This is not a test. It’s not a competition. There are no rules or points for form and fairness. You can run and hide and stamp on their feet and kick them in the balls and throw wine in their eyes. In the end, if you’re alive and they aren’t, you can make up whatever story you like about how you valiantly defeated their greatest hero in single combat. There’s no cowardice in fighting dirty.”

“Or we could go to the stables right now, take a couple of good horses and leave all this behind.”

Cragnoor’s hand was hot on his cheek, his lips tantalizingly close. “I have a duty too, you know. But after this wedding there’ll be peace. Chauncley will ride off with his new bride. We’ll have the castle to ourselves…”

Vexler groaned, closing his eyes. “Damn you, Ethan. You don’t even need a sword to disarm me.”

“Mm. But I do have to finalize some paperwork with the Valdrogian empress. You should keep practicing.”

“My arms might have other ideas.”

Vexler watched Cragnoor stride off through the courtyard, smoothing down his hair and fixing his crown back in place as he went. There was no reason Chauncley couldn’t thrive as a king, especially with a savvy wife and advisors: he was no idiot, even if his feelings often seemed to get in the way of logic, and he had a good heart. But Chauncley would never be the kind of king his father was… and Vexler still couldn’t decide whether that was good or bad.

“So you’re the boyfriend.”

He almost dropped his sword at the sudden, cheery voice by his arm. “The… Excuse me? The what?”

Princess Vicki was a lithe young woman, elegantly dressed, and oddly now completely alone rather than flanked by the burly bodyguards Vexler had grown to expect around all aristocratic ladies. She frowned prettily now, with the air of someone who might have made a social faux pas. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m translating from the Valdrogian, perhaps you don’t have this word. You’re the king’s swain, paramour… He fucks you in the ass, is what I’m trying to say. What would be the decorous expression in these parts?”

Vexler had to give himself points for not choking or spluttering in response. “I really wouldn’t know these vulgar terms, Princess.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest. We all have the same illuminated manuscripts tucked under our pillows, if you know what I’m saying.”

During his tenure at the castle, Vexler had come to learn the advantage of making various noncommittal noises. “Was there something I could help you with, your highness? Did you become separated from the rest of your party?”

“Ugh, like I want to hang around with my mom all day. It’s nothing but plot-plot-plot with her. So much more interesting to talk to the maids and cooks. That’s where all the gossip is. And, gosh, the pastries. I think I’m going to gain ten pounds before I leave here.”

Vexler silently cursed himself for not making sure their own guards kept a tight watch on all Valdrogian guests. Even the small, pretty ones who looked like they could be blown away by a faint breeze. How many times had he himself recruited innocent-looking kids to wander into foreign strongholds and memorize what seemed like foolish servant chatter? 

“The pastries do indeed have hidden depths,” he said carefully.

She patted his arm. “Don’t fret, my lord. I’m only interested in when exactly you plan to kill him.”

“Kill him?” Vexler felt like the ground had shifted under his feet. “Kill who? The king? He’s the king, of course I’m not going to kill him.”

“The fact that he’s the king is _exactly_ why you’d kill him. I mean, come on, you’ve read the history books, right? It’s always the trusted advisor who does it. You could poison him, stab him in his sleep… It would be so easy. And with Chauncley in Valdrogia, you’d be the natural heir.”

Vexler steadied himself. “This is sedition,” he said. “I suggest you stop this immediately before I have guards clap you in irons.”

She smiled. “And tear up the peace treaty? You’d be signing the death warrant of everyone for twenty miles around. Anyway, I’m not trying to convince you to do it. It’s obvious you _will_ do it. I just want to know when. What’s your timescale? Six months? A year? We’ve got invasion schedules to draw up, that’s all. You understand how it is.”

“Oh, I understand.” Vexler adopted his most serene smile. “Paperwork’s a bitch, huh? Well, look. Just make a note in your yearly projections that King Cragnoor’s ‘boyfriend’ plans to keep getting fucked in the ass for years and decades to come, and then maybe find a different kingdom to mess with for a while. I hear Trebizond’s lovely. Great weather, nice beaches, lots of lovely ladies to keep your blood warriors happy.”

Vicki’s smile only intensified. “What a fabulous idea. Thanks for the rec, Chris. And it is _so_ admirable to find a man who still cares about monogamy and not murdering his partner these days. I mean, it’s a little old fashioned, but you do you. No reason to worry about being thrown back into the gutter the moment the king dies or gets bored with you. No reason at all. See you at the wedding!” 

A couple of flamboyant air kisses and she was gone, trailing back toward the great hall. Vexler hefted his sword and looked around for something to hit.

***

That was the great advantage and also the great problem with psychological warfare: it worked even if the person you were attacking knew exactly what you were doing. Vexler could spend hours hacking away at a practice dummy or burying himself in the terrible grammar of his assassins’ dispatches from other realms, but it didn’t do much to stop her words from echoing around his skull like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He could counter them with as much logic as he liked - that he was probably more likely to die than Cragnoor, that Cragnoor was as ridiculously devoted to him as Cragnoor could reasonably be expected to be devoted to anyone… But logic was a poor salve for feelings.

“ _Christopher_.” 

For a moment it felt like he was falling and he came back to himself with a jerk and - it turned out - an almighty splash, as well as the painful clang of his toes against the end of the tin bathtub. The _bathtub_. How fucked up did his mind have to be, to drift off while taking a bath with the king? The Chris Vexler of several months ago, the Chris Vexler who was still fucking his hand and gasping the king’s name into his own pillow, would have been both shocked and deeply ashamed.

“I wore you out today, huh?” Cragnoor’s fingers were already digging into the aching orbs of his shoulders, which felt both incredibly painful and incredibly good. “It’s always like this when you start. It gets easier.”

Vexler mumbled his agreement, shaking the pain out from his foot and settling back against Cragnoor’s chest. “How did everything go with the empress?” he asked, hoping their conversation hadn't already covered this.

“You know how I am at small talk. But everything’s arranged. The ceremony. The vows. Chauncley even seems to like the girl, so… It’s all fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Anytime I say that, you point out at least twenty things I should be worrying about, from peasant rebellions to plague and famine.”

Cragnoor’s fingers pinched the bottom of his neck, which again was a kind of sweet torture. “I’m trying to make you feel better.”

“Yes.” Vexler let his head fall forward, chin against his chest. “You’re a very good… A very good boyfriend.”

“What’s that?”

“Some Valdrogian concept. Princess Vicki seems to be well aware of our…” His fingers traced circles in the water. “Our relationship.”

“She can be well aware of anything she likes, just as long as she says ‘I do’ tomorrow. Was she trying to blackmail you? They’re a canny lot, those Valdrogians, but they overestimate the amount peasants care about the sex lives of royalty. Even the fucking Papists couldn’t give a shit, so long as I let them build their churches, which only distract the peasants even more.”

Vexler closed his eyes, his hands smoothing over Cragnoor’s thighs where they sat alongside his own. “She also seems to think it’s inevitable that I’m going to kill you.”

“Sometimes when we’re in bed I think the same thing.” 

Vexler’s instinct was to jab an elbow back into soft flesh, but he tipped his head upward, instead, searching for eye contact. “And it doesn’t worry you? That one day I’ll get scared or pissed off, and decide I’d make a better king than you?”

“If you decide that, do let me know if there’s an opening to be your most trusted advisor.” Cragnoor’s mouth caught his, hands running down his chest, through a trail of hair down to where his cock was stirring. 

Vexler reached up, wet fingers grabbing Cragnoor’s hair. “I wish you’d take these things seriously.”

“I do take them seriously. You’re the most serious thing in my life, Chris, and the only part of it that hasn’t been decided for me by family or duty or treaties etched on parchment. I don’t think you’re going to kill me… But if you do, it’s better than dying on some lonely battlefield because an infantryman finally got in a lucky shot.”

“Fuck,” Vexler breathed, with feeling. “Now can we take these things _less_ seriously?”

Their bodies were still wet and steaming by the time they made it to the bed, Cragnoor pulling him down. Logic might not have been able to calm his thoughts, but this could. There was nothing, _nothing_ more insane in this moment than the idea he could ever willingly give this up, or harm this body, this man, he loved so deeply and intensely. 

Vexler kissed him, long and sloppy, and slid back, feet hitting the floor, as he ran his tongue over Cragnoor’s nipples, through the hair of his chest, like he could somehow lick the man dry. It wasn’t strictly possible, but it was fun to try, his own hair and beard dripping a trail that marked his passing. He kissed along the sharp line of Cragnoor’s hip, inside his thigh, and - when he got that sharp hiss of need he was looking for - sucked his cock into his mouth in one smooth motion. Cragnoor’s body tensed and jackknifed like he’d been punched in the stomach, and then he went limp, eyes closing, hips rocking gently. 

The taste of him was so wonderfully familiar, the salty tang of pre-come just beginning to bead in his slit, as Vexler’s tongue swiped over the swollen head. Cragnoor didn’t resist as Vexler guided his feet up onto the edge of the bed and stroked two fingers over his hole. Vexler had wanted Cragnoor to fuck him like this for a while, but Cragnoor was just too damn tall for the geometry of it all to work out. Fortunately height meant nothing when Vexler had him flat on his back. 

When Vexler took a moment to grab the oil, he came back to find Cragnoor still in the same position, thighs parted, breathing shallow as he fingered himself.

“Did you do that before the first time?” Vexler asked, warmth filling his cock. “Did you fuck yourself and think of me inside you?”

Cragnoor’s eyes, when they opened, were so fucking hungry, Vexler’s heart almost stopped. “I’m thinking of you inside me now. What’s taking you so long?”

Vexler could have reminded him of his own words that very morning about impatience and impetuousness and whatever else had apparently been the sole domain of younger men right up to the point that Cragnoor himself was begging to be fucked. But that would just add a few seconds to what he really wanted to do, which was get his oil-slicked fingers inside that hole and find that special spot that would make Cragnoor’s cock twitch.

“Talk to me,” he said, stroking himself in the same rhythm as his fingers rubbed over that tiny bump of so-sensitive flesh inside his lover, his king. “Tell me what you want.”

He was being very, very unfair, he knew, to crook his fingers _just_ right the moment Cragnoor started to say something, so that whatever syllable it was came out as a strangled moan, as Cragnoor’s head was thrown back, his back arched. 

“Oh, that. I see.” It was just as well Cragnoor’s eyes could only figuratively shoot daggers as he slid his fingers out. He meant to take his time easing his cock inside, both because Cragnoor wasn’t as used to this and because watching Cragnoor writhe was a unique kind of delight, but once he felt that tight heat around him, his hips had absolutely no restraint. 

Cragnoor grunted out something that might have been surprise, might have been pain, but he let Vexler push his thighs up and back, taking him deeper, as he tugged his half-hard cock back to its full, stiff length. “Come on then, fuck me.”

“I love you,” Vexler said suddenly, which seemed both a very strange thing to say in that moment and not strange at all, the way Cragnoor’s body and being and very essence made him feel weightless, like pure joy was running through his veins. 

Cragnoor might not have been able to thrust back against his cock, but he could reach down and give Vexler’s ass a smack. “Stop stalling. And say that again.”

He said it so many times over the next long minutes of their lovemaking that it should have faded into nonsense, just meaningless sounds that blended with the slap of skin against skin, their rapidly gasped breaths, and the way Cragnoor started saying “Oh Chris…” with some urgency and need. But he still meant it every single time. All of them. Up to and including when the tension corkscrewed in his stomach and the snap of his hips was driven by some force greater than either of them, and he came, his legs feeling like jelly until he fell into Cragnoor’s arms, found his lover's swollen, sensitive cock, and in a few short strokes gave him his release.

“Sorry, I’m-” he started to say when the deep, overwhelming pleasure of it all ebbed just the tiniest bit, realizing how awkward his position was.

Cragnoor’s stupidly muscular arms caught him and held him there. “What was that word again?”

Vexler’s mind was blank for far longer than usual. “Boyfriend?” he finally hazarded.

“I haven’t been a boy in a while.”

“Honestly I haven’t heard the original Valdrogian, but I’m guessing it translates more to something like... penis-lover?”

Cragnoor snorted. “As ever, I bow to your linguistic superiority.”

Later, when darkness had set in in earnest, and they crept under the sheets, Vexler stretched out with a contented yawn. “We have a wedding to go to tomorrow. We should go together. I always hated having to go to weddings alone.”

“Chris, you’re officiating. I’m the father of the groom. It’s being held a two-minute walk from this chamber. There’s hardly any need to-”

Vexler pressed his entire palm over Cragnoor’s lips. “Ethan, I’m asking you on a date. You don’t have to do anything or go anywhere you weren’t already going to. It’s the least complex agreement you’ll make all year.”

One of the things he loved about Cragnoor was watching his brain work. It was second only to the fact he actually had one. “So why… Is this another Valdrogian thing?”

“It’s a thing where we’re never going to have our own wedding, or go on a date to a play or a lecture, but we are going to see a young man we both really care about get married tomorrow. And that’s something big.”

Cragnoor shifted a little. “We could have our own wedding,” he said in that certain undefinable tone of his that could be humor, could be deadly serious. “I’m not a Papist, and the gods of my forefathers have done much stranger things. Also I’m the king, which tends to smooth the path a little.”

“Don’t joke with me about this.” He knew in reality it would be a farce, albeit in a different way from the wedding on the horizon. Any marriage for love was already regarded as unbelievable frippery. But he didn’t need the possibility dangled in front of him, only to be mocked or ripped from his grasp. 

Cragnoor rolled over to look him in the eye. “You of all people should know that King Cragnoor doesn’t joke. But he will be your date to the wedding, so long as no dancing is involved.”

“Oh if we make it to the dancing, there _will_ be dancing. But I’ll be so fucking drunk by then I’ll probably drag a statue onto the dance floor.”

There were few things he liked more than seeing Cragnoor’s eyes light up with not just fire, but laughter too. “I shall have the court painter immortalize such a moment.”

“I think you killed the court painter.”

“That was the sculptor.”

“No, you _like_ the sculptor. You said he got the flanges on your granddad’s mace just right.”

Cragnoor considered this for a moment. “Fuck, you’re right,” he said, edging closer to lay his head on Vexler’s shoulder with a dull thud of resignation. “Why are you always right?”

“Because I’m very clever and very wise, and you never get enough sleep.” Vexler threaded his fingers through his king’s hair. “Now shh or we’ll sleep through the whole damn wedding.”

He expected an argument, or at least a typically sharp remark, but Cragnoor just flung an arm across him, sighed out a breath, and lay still. Vexler was left to lie there watching shadows from the fire dance across a high ceiling, and reflect on how convenient it was that Lower Murkford was based on such clear divisions. Royalty were akin to gods. Peasants were akin to shit. And lords… Lords made sure the world kept turning on its axis.

Or did their best, at least.


End file.
